


Systems Theory

by tanaleth



Series: The Persistence Question [3]
Category: Fallout 4
Genre: Awkward Romance, Danse is a good boy, Developing Relationship, Egregious misuse of armor workbench, F/M, Flashbacks, Gentle femdom, Introspection, Light Angst, Mutual Pining, Post-Blind Betrayal, Praise Kink, Romance, Smut, Suicidal Thoughts, Synth Retention, do I make the rules? no
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-25
Updated: 2020-08-11
Packaged: 2021-02-23 07:00:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,488
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23840881
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tanaleth/pseuds/tanaleth
Summary: Danse had thought of himself as a steady man not all that long ago. Now he didn't know what to think. He didn't know what to feel. There were no orders and no prescribed paths to follow. He'd have to make his own way—and that was, frankly, terrifying.At least he didn't have to do it alone.(Early-relationship introspection, smut, low-key angst.)
Relationships: Paladin Danse/Female Sole Survivor
Series: The Persistence Question [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1702624
Comments: 34
Kudos: 74





	1. Parts

**Author's Note:**

> Systems theory is a conceptual framework based on the principle that the component parts of a system can best be understood in the context of the relationships with each other and with other systems, rather than in isolation.
> 
> [ _(source)_ ](https://link.springer.com/referenceworkentry/10.1007%2F978-0-387-79061-9_941)
> 
> ***
> 
> Set a week after the [previous fic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23514325) in this series.

Danse caught a glimpse of the date displayed on the terminal and was mildly surprised by it. Had it really only been two weeks since his life collapsed in on itself?

That realization cast a new light on his first meeting with Cecily Williams. He'd learned later that Williams had woken from cryostasis less than seventy-two hours before picking up Haylen's distress signal. But she was calm and collected in the flurry of gunfire, feral ghouls, and strange soldiers; when a feral lurched shrieking at Knight Rhys, she dropped into a crouch and picked it off from across the courtyard. Her aim never faltered. 

Of course, if it had, they never would have met. That steadiness was what kept her alive in the Commonwealth. It was also the reason Danse's entire team hadn't met the fate of Paladin Brandis's.

Danse had thought of himself as a steady man not all that long ago. Now he didn't know what to think. He didn't know what to feel. There were no orders and no prescribed paths to follow. He'd have to make his own way—and that was, frankly, terrifying.

At least he didn't have to do it alone.

He went back to work. There was a long list of tasks to keep him busy, the first of which was cleaning up the bunker. The debris that hadn't seemed important when he first arrived had since begun to grate. There were bodies in the groundwater, for God's sake.

A few of Cecily's hairpins were scattered on the concrete floor. Danse collected them and placed them carefully on the end table. She always treated those things like gold, muttering under her breath about a criminal lack of hairspray in the Commonwealth every time she had to pick a lock. That particular skill of hers was impressive. He had a vague sense that he should disapprove, but he was also pragmatic. It was a useful skill. And it was fascinating to watch her hands poke and prod and twist until the tumbler clicked into place. 

He'd been startled and uneasy to discover the full extent of his fascination with her, in fact. It made him feel off balance even as he was coming to rely on her presence in the field. His respect for Knight Williams as his teammate had gotten all tangled up with the smell of her hair when he sat too close at breakfast, with the crooked smile that turned his way surprisingly often. And with her incursion into his already disjointed dreams.

It would have been inappropriate to acknowledge what was happening. He was her commanding officer and his feelings were his own issue to handle. Considering Cade's medical recommendations, he'd already put the mission at risk for personal reasons. Fortunately Danse was capable of setting his emotions aside to focus on the bigger picture. He could be friends with Williams, but that was all. Hell: friendship was already pushing the limits of comfort when the world was all too eager to take people from him.

Williams had caught him off guard a few times, though. Like when she said—so earnestly—that she cared too much about Danse to put him through losing her. He'd spent a lot of early-morning hours turning those words over in his head, but it was nothing to the time he told her about Haylen crying in his arms. Cecily had been as thoughtful and sympathetic as always… and then coyly asked if he'd hold _her_ , too.

He’d stuttered out something that might—if he was lucky—have been a complete sentence. And then changed the subject.

He hadn't thought she really meant it. And it wouldn't be fair to either her or the Brotherhood to interrupt her work and training because of his own admiration. She made a damn good soldier—not just a good shot but tenacious and level-headed, the best partner he could have hoped for in the field. He found himself growing restless, antsy and impatient when she was with one of her civilian allies. But she spent most of her time with him, working directly for the Brotherhood, and his personal feelings were irrelevant to their mission.

It wasn't that Danse didn't recognize those feelings for what they were. But he'd never had them for someone under his command, and no one had ever... well, no one had ever confessed to having feelings like that for him. Let alone someone who'd become his day-to-day companion, whose life he'd saved and who'd saved his; someone who'd only recently awoken to find her family gone and her world turned upside down.

Little wonder he was confused. It seemed unlikely the Institute had programmed him with such a complicated eventuality in mind.

The radio crackled and drew Danse's attention away from the garbage pile he was sorting. Shoving a rusted tin crate aside, he got to his feet and hurried to adjust the dial. It was loose and slipped right past the frequency he was seeking. It took him a moment to rotate it back into place. He'd have to fix that later.

"—you there? It's—"

The signal cut out again and he gave up fiddling with the dial. He knew who it was.

Sure enough, the elevator bell rang only a few minutes later. When the doors slid open, Danse was waiting there to greet her.

"Scribe Haylen."

The woman saluted automatically and then dropped her arm with a look of confusion.

He sympathized.

"Sir. I mean, Danse." Haylen's lips twitched in a half-smile. "Do you have a first name? _Is_ that your first name?"

He shrugged and rested a hand on the elevator door to keep it from closing. "I think so." At least it had always been his name in the probably-false memories of unknown origin. It wasn't uncommon for people who'd grown up the way he had to go by a single name. If he'd ever had another, it didn't matter: the Brotherhood superseded family ties, and the Brotherhood was the only family he needed anyway.

"Brought you some supplies."

"Ah." Danse caught a glimpse of the stuffed pockets on her scribe's uniform. "I'm glad to see you, but I hope it's not a distraction from your duties."

"To hell with my duties. No, Danse, I'm sorry.” Haylen looked up at him and sighed. “Of course I'm still working for the cause. I was just so disgusted by how they treated you."

The elevator bell rang again, impatiently. Danse released the door and stepped back to let Haylen pass into the control room.

He didn't want to get into it all again, so he changed the subject to the other one that occupied his mind these days.

"Have you heard from Paladin Williams?"

Haylen shot him a quick, dubious look, so fleeting he wasn't sure if he'd imagined it. "She stopped by on the way to—wherever she was going. The Institute, right?"

"Right."

"Amazing. Well, I didn't see her, but Peterson said she seemed fine. Left the dog at the station." Haylen snorted. "The only outside visitor Rhys approves of."

Danse was inexplicably irritated by that. The animal could have stayed here, after all—but he hadn't wanted to send Cecily to Cambridge on her own. She'd planned to run at least two dangerous errands on the way. And Danse had traveled with her enough to know that errands like those had a way of... multiplying.

Haylen followed him into the back room. She examined the spartan furnishings without comment, only sliding the pack off her back and starting to unzip pouches.

"Picked you up some light reading." She dropped a heavy tome on the desk. A battered old military thriller that looked highly inaccurate.

"Uh, thanks."

A few cans of food and a fusion cell followed the book. "How are you adjusting?"

"To what? Life in a hole in the ground? Learning I'm not human?" He leaned against an antique filing cabinet and rubbed his eyes. "Sorry."

"Don't be. It's a hell of a lot." She dropped her bag, pulled the chair away from the desk, and sat down. "Saw a vertibird patrol on my way in. About half a mile west of here."

Danse dropped his hand. "I hope they weren't looking for me."

"I doubt it. Everyone thinks you're dead." Haylen tugged off her hood, brushing a hand over ruffled ginger hair.

"Good. If there was any suspicion—you'd tell me?"

"I haven't even heard anyone wonder. I mean, I know how close you two were, and I still thought she'd…" Her voice caught. It made Danse want to sink into the ground. "Until I heard you on the radio, I assumed you hadn't made it."

He stood up straighter and cleared his throat uncomfortably. "Sorry for the burden, Scribe."

"Jesus." To his surprise, Haylen laughed. "It's not a burden. A burden would be knowing that you'd died without so much as a chance to defend yourself." She shook her head. "You'd have done the same for any of us."

Would he? He wasn't so sure.

"There isn't much to defend. I'm everything we fought against." It seemed they were going to talk about it whether he wanted to or not. "If I'm willing to kill for our principles, shouldn't I be willing to die for them?"

She snorted. "As if you're not? Come on. I can't count the number of times you've put your life on the line for us. This was different."

"How?" he challenged.

Finding out he wasn't human shouldn’t have made it so much harder to keep his feelings in check. If anything, he would have assumed the opposite effect—not that he'd ever imagined it was a possibility.

"Oh, Danse, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to upset you."

"I'm not upset." There was no reason to be upset. "I'm just not very good at… talking about these things. Thank you, Haylen. I appreciate your concern."

She didn't move.

"Don't worry about me," he said, as insistently as he could without making it sound like an order. "Look, if you really want to help, I'm cleaning out the cistern. Could use a hand with the yao guai."

Haylen made a face. "You sure know how to show a girl a good time."

* * *

Cecily woke from an uneasy nightmare, a hazy blur of soothing voices and polite atrocities, and grimaced as the mattress gave softly under her. She wasn't used to clean and comfortable surroundings these days. The alarm clock glared out the depressing hour of 03:42 and, damn it, her thoughts went back to the bunker.

He would have done it.

Which "he" didn't even matter—though from the Brotherhood's perspective, there had only been one man standing outside the listening post. One man, one machine, and one woman standing between the two of them and trying desperately to hold together what was left of her world.

Arthur Maxson would have done it, absolutely. She knew it in her bones. He'd followed Cecily because he expected her to falter. At first, she'd wondered if maybe Maxson knew how much she cared for Danse: if he'd hoped, on some level, that she'd disobey his orders.

No. The spittle-flecked beard, the eyes as cold as anything she'd ever seen—there had been nothing there but anger and disgust. Danse was nothing to him. It was as if all the years of loyal service had vanished into thin air. Worse than that: it was as if they'd never existed in the first place. Maxson's anger wasn't even aimed at Danse, not really. It was for the world that had the temerity to allow Danse to exist at all.

But he was a good soldier, Cecily had pleaded. A good man. He'd served honorably, he'd saved lives, and he'd held up the ideals of the Brotherhood as much as anyone could have done.

And in exchange she'd seen the barely suppressed fury contort Maxson's face as it warred with icy calculation. The Elder was weighing the risks of losing them both. He could kill Danse, but he couldn't kill Cecily. She was too well known outside the Brotherhood and her connection to the Institute was too useful to lose. She was a liability... but she could still be an asset.

So they agreed to the pretense, the indefinite truce. The stalemate.

Danse assured her afterwards that the Elder wouldn't go back on his word. For all her horror at the man's actions, Cecily believed it. And Maxson had promoted Cecily to his inner circle and promised to treat her as he would any of his officers, but would he ever fully trust her? Probably not.

It was Nick who remarked later, wryly, that this was the best possible outcome. Danse had his life and his freedom from the Brotherhood. Whether the latter was a gift or a punishment, well, that was up to Danse to decide.

Privately, Cecily was more inclined to take Nick's side than she would have been when she initially encountered the Brotherhood of Steel. Her first reaction to meeting Recon Squad Gladius had been instinctive relief. People who knew what they were doing, people who were trying to fix what was broken—and everything here was broken. Everything was wrong.

The squad had been caught in a bad spot, but their commander was organized and his confidence was reassuring. Clearly a more disciplined group than the shell-shocked stragglers she'd stumbled over in Concord. The Brotherhood appealed to her sense of order; it was a source of structure in a world of chaos.

Cecily wasn't quite so sure anymore that they were in the right, but her impression of that one commander's competence hadn't changed. And the organization was still organized, still powerful, and they were—if nothing else—honest about their goals.

But the synths, the ones like Danse, they were people. Whatever the war hawks in the Brotherhood or those psychopaths in the SRB said—whatever Danse himself would have said a few weeks ago. She hadn't been certain what to think on her first trip down here, but now she knew.

Her pillowcase was clean and smelled pleasantly of soap, and her fingertips trembled with a flash of anger. They'd created him but they hadn't taken care of him.

The Brotherhood saw synths as weapons. A threat to humanity. But the Institute thought of them as tools. Like how Cecily thought of her Pip-Boy: hardware and software, not body and mind. She remembered how— _he_ had flicked off the ten-year-old synth-Shaun. How the boy slumped at the shoulders like a puppet with no puppetmaster, like a toy that had run out of batteries. It made her heartsick. And he hadn't even been…

They were flesh and blood. If the Institute was so determined to replicate humans, they had a duty to give them care and nourishment—every kind of nourishment. The scientists had given them emotions but hadn't bothered to tend to their emotional needs. They'd given them sentience and called "autonomy" a damn bug.

Danse didn't just have consciousness. He had a conscience. She'd known that as soon as she met him, as soon as she saw the seriousness in which he held his duty to his soldiers and his superiors. His mind had never been in question. If anything, his sharpness and skill had made it take longer to recognize him as anything _other_ than a mind in a metal suit.

She'd gotten there eventually. 

_The two of them had been trekking along the edge of the Glowing Sea since before dawn. Danse suggested an overcropping boulder as a place to wait out the hottest part of the day, and Cecily moved gratefully into the shade to rest._

_It was still appallingly hot. The sort of dry heat Cecily associated more with the Southwest than with Massachusetts. But even without humidity, her Vault suit was sticking to her skin and chafing inside her Power Armor. She should have worn the Brotherhood jumpsuit: it was heavier, but made to go with the armor. Her companion didn't look remotely uncomfortable and, as far as she could determine, he'd been born in Brotherhood gear._

_Cecily was annoyed. She was tired, and hot, and horrified by the desolation that lay before them. She usually appreciated Danse's company, but his utter unflappability in the face of this hellscape was getting on her nerves._

_She looked up when his large shadow clanked to her side, blocking out the worst of the sun._

_"Knight Williams."_

_Even the sound of her new title made her cringe. But she only replied, "Paladin Danse.”_

_He extended a flask to her and she took it, sipping a small mouthful. The water was lukewarm and left a chemical aftertaste. Just then it was heavenly, and with the relief of it, Cecily let loose her curious tongue._

_"How did you get those scars?" she asked him, tightening the cap and handing back the flask._

_"These ones?" He gestured at the right side of his face. "Super Mutant. What about yours?"_

_"Deathclaw."_

_"Damn." Behind the dark lenses, she saw his eyebrows lift. "You should be careful with those. I've seen one tear open Power Armor like a tin can."_

_"So have I. From inside the tin can."_

_Danse shook his head as he tucked the flask back into his pack. "Welcome to the Commonwealth. I wish I could assure you it's not a representative experience, but you know as well as I do the kind of dangers we're likely to find out here."_

_"Wonderful."_

_He sighed and took off his sunglasses. And then, to her surprise, he unfastened the snaps around his chin and tugged off his hood._

_"Not very prepared of you, Paladin," said Cecily as lightly as she could manage. She was trying—and failing—not to gawk. God had a sense of humor making a man like that look like… well, like_ that _._

_"It's too damn hot," he said irritably, running his fingers through a thicket of sweaty dark hair. "Once we're in the Glowing Sea we'll need to stay suited up no matter what. Which means that if you need to relieve yourself, it's now or never."_

_"Duly noted," she muttered._

_Really, it was a good thing that missions like this had you up close and personal with your partner in every unromantic way imaginable. The last thing Cecily needed was a crush on her C.O._

_That didn't stop her from sneaking a glance back at him, though, as she ducked around the rock seeking at least the pretense of privacy. There was nothing wrong with aesthetic appreciation, was there?_

_And, strictly speaking, she hadn't been with a man in centuries. That was one hell of a dry spell._

_Christ. She was probably just hormonal._

It wasn't until they were back in the Commonwealth that she’d started to really wonder about her own feelings. To suspect there might be more to them than respect for a friend or interest in an attractive face, maybe even more than the camaraderie that came from traveling and fighting together. 

_"I found him," she called to Danse as they scoured the wreckage of a satellite array._

_"Hell," was all he said. It was a moment or two before she heard heavy footsteps on the narrow stairs below._

_Cecily looked over the railing to watch him climb. It was late at night and the platform was at least forty feet off the ground. "Doesn't that armor make you more likely to fall?"_

_"Slightly. It also makes it probable I'd survive." Danse reached the landing and scowled at her light combat armor. "Considerably more probable than that garbage you're wearing."_

_"I told you, I'm low on fusion cores."_

_Danse ignored her perfectly reasonable counterargument and surveyed the rickety platform. "Where is he?"_

_"Over here."_

_He followed her through a tilting doorway and crouched, rather laboriously, next to the huddled shape of Field Scribe Faris. "Damn it."_

_"I got his tags. And a holotape."_

_Danse didn't look up from the body. "Have you played it yet?"_

_"Here." She snapped the tape into her Pip-Boy and the haunting sounds drifted out into the night. The last words of yet another member of the doomed recon squad._

_Danse shook his head. "Brandis broke the first rule of small-group tactics. Stick together." He looked up and the moonlight caught his face. The hint of strain on it tugged at her heartstrings. "Always stick together. Damn it."_

_Cecily stole another glance at his profile as they left. Yes, there was definitely a human being under there._

_Damn it, indeed._

—

Leaving the Institute, leaving her horrible son behind, was like taking a breath of fresh air at the same time as she hacked off a finger. Or something.

Her familiar set of power armor stood in the station garage, battered but freshly polished. Not a speck of rust. Someone must have been bored.

She was still using her old armor, not Danse's T-60 suit. She couldn't very well give that back to him, she'd be expected to use the damn thing, but she'd left it on the Prydwen with a vague excuse about needing some mods. It might even have been true. She hadn't taken the time to inspect it closely.

How on earth had she ended up here?

The last time she'd stopped at the police station, it had been in the dim hour before dawn. She hadn't gone inside, only stopped into the garage to lock her power armor and tie up Dogmeat. The Knight standing guard had greeted her with a cheerful "Paladin" and it had taken all her composure to nod at him rather than turn tail and run.

Cecily could make an attempt at the same dignity she mustered with Nate's coworkers. But the protocol expected from a sponsored initiate in the field was different from that expected of an officer. Even if the officer had been promoted on the fiction that she'd executed her—what was Danse, anyway? Her boyfriend? The word didn't seem serious enough, their bond was too deep, but it wasn't—it was still too soon. Her mind skittered away from thoughts of anything else. He wasn't Nate, but he didn't need to be Nate. It was different. They weren't settling down with children in the suburbs, they were watching one another's backs in combat.

Partner? Partner was a good word. They'd been partners for a while already. She wondered what he thought.

And how he felt being partnered with a damn coward. She climbed the back stairs into the police station, eager to dodge the nods and the respectful salutes. Even more eager to dodge the remarks about Paladin Danse. The angry comments, the judgmental ones, she could handle; the sympathetic ones nearly broke her. 

Thank God for Haylen. The woman didn't even need prompting to make an excuse about showing Cecily something on a terminal upstairs. With the door of the dusty storage room shut behind them, they had a chance to speak privately.

Cecily didn't mince words. "He's all right?"

"I think so." Haylen eyed her. "Can I ask a personal question, Paladin?"

"What kind of personal question?"

"If it's none of my business, you can tell me where to shove it." She shifted her weight and frowned. "I always knew Paladin Danse thought highly of you. I was just wondering if…"

Cecily felt her cheeks starting to flush. "If?"

"If there was something else going on." Haylen shot Cecily a sidelong glance. "I'd feel like an asshole for bringing it up if you hadn't asked me about Rhys five minutes after we met."

"Sorry," said Cecily helplessly. "I, uh. Yeah. At least—" She was thirty years old, for God's sake. Well, she was two hundred and forty, but the point was that she should be able to answer a simple question without blushing and stuttering. But compared to the overpowering urgency of keeping Danse safe, her own infatuation with him seemed so much less important.

It was all so new and so fragile. They'd talked, they'd held one another and they'd had sex, but they hadn't taken the time to delineate exactly what they were to each other now. They certainly hadn't decided what they'd tell their friends. Not when only a handful of people had any reason to suspect Danse was alive.

What if she'd pressured him into a relationship before he was ready? He'd just had the shock of his life. An uneasy sensation began to spread down her neck. Maybe... maybe. She couldn't ignore her worries forever.

Haylen grimaced. "It really is none of my business. Anyway, Rhys took Dogmeat out back for exercise. Want to go meet up with them?"

* * *

The bunker seemed quieter when Haylen was gone. He missed her already. He missed his squad, he missed the Prydwen, he missed his life. 

Danse knew what it was like to lose a comrade. He'd reprimanded himself for not thinking how his death would affect people like Haylen and Williams.

Especially Williams. He'd expected it would be difficult for her to pull the trigger, maybe even as difficult as it had been for him to kill Cutler. He didn't especially want to die. But he was a synth: he was the enemy, and whatever had been between them was as dead as Danse would be once she carried out Maxson's orders. At least one of them would be able to move on. It was the best possible outcome.

But Cecily refused. Her voice wavered, her eyes glistened in the fluorescent light, and Danse was shaken.

He'd never seen Cecily Williams cry. Not the time she'd showed him her lost child's bedroom: when Danse asked the function of the tiny rockets hanging over the crib, she'd only laughed and explained. Not when she'd visited her husband's frozen body in the Vault and stood before it in silence. Not any of the times she'd been injured or in pain.

And she'd cry over _him?_ He wasn't even human. 

Danse was surprised enough when she defied him to his face. When she stood down to Maxson, he was stunned. After it was all over and they were alone, she looked back at him and there were tears on her face again. This time they weren't tears of sorrow. And her happiness seemed… well, for a moment, it seemed like something else.

He told himself it was the relief anyone in her position would show, even as his stomach flipped and his not-actually-human heart raced. She cared for him as her friend, as her comrade and sponsor to the Brotherhood. Hell, she probably cared about him more than anyone ever had. He told himself to be grateful for that and for his life. It was absurd to hope for more.

But no amount of self-remonstrance could keep him from hoping. Not when she came back two days later and looked at him with shining eyes, not when she smiled at him so broadly and easily. He'd never seen her smile at anyone else that way.

And then she said she was in love with him.

He couldn't believe it at first. He struggled to believe it even as she provided compelling evidence to support her claim: he told her his most painful and shameful thoughts, and she asked him to keep fighting at her side. He told her he wasn't sure what she wanted, and she invited him to bed.

It all seemed too easy. Danse wanted to be a good partner, but he was reasonably certain there was more to it than that.

Cecily was so generous. It was something he'd always admired about her, even if it was an irritant to his tactical mind to watch her share their limited rations of purified water with the first settler who asked. And that was for a stranger. How far would she go for her friends?

As horrifying as the idea was, it wouldn't leave his head now that it had enmeshed itself. Would she really have given herself to him like that, if she thought it was the best way to keep him alive?

In the darkened bunker where time didn't matter, where 0400 hours looked like 1400 looked like 2400, it seemed possible. Even probable, if you looked at the matter objectively.

Danse might be her friend, but he was also a synth. He had always been his own worst enemy. Maybe that was the case here: maybe he'd let wishful thinking guide him into believing what he wanted to be true.

He'd spent a lot of time studying his own body at first. He'd examined his face in the mirror and inspected his fingerprints under the workbench light. Searching for any hint of an artificial origin. It was pointless—he didn't even know what to look for—but he couldn't stop checking.

Cecily had studied him, too. His face grew hot to recall the thoroughness with which she'd explored his body: placed light kisses up and down his legs, drawn her fingernails over his back, even more intimate things than that. She'd told him over and over again that she loved him.

But what did that mean to her? They hadn't talked about their plans beyond short-term practicalities. To him, it meant commitment. He wasn't a casual man—or synth, damn it—but he thought Williams knew him well enough to understand that.

Bounding to his feet, he began to pace the narrow room yet again. He needed to tell her—he needed to tell her... 

But she knew how he felt. He'd told her how much she meant to him—how she represented every hope for his future. Even if the rest of that future was confined to this bunker. Everything he'd done, everything he'd been through, everyone he'd lost: it would all have a purpose. It wouldn't be for nothing if he could help her take down the Institute.

He sincerely hoped he could help her take down the Institute.

—

The next time the elevator dinged, Danse was already in the control room. The components of the radio spread out over the workbench, half repaired, were the reason he hadn't been warned of this visitor's arrival. 

Cecily's face looked gaunt and sickly under the stark fluorescent lights. But she was on two feet; she was living and breathing and she'd come to see him. Her hand was on her holstered weapon; her eyes darted over the stacks of crates and terminals until she saw Danse.

When he stepped forward, she flew into his arms. Just as if that was where she wanted to be.

It was certainly where _he_ wanted her to be.

"Hi," she breathed into his shirt.

The warmth in his chest was remarkable. He buried his nose in her hair and took a deep breath. "Are you all right?"

"Yes. Yes, I'm fine." She leaned back and her hands snuck up to frame his face. "And you?"

"Mentally and physically ready for service, Paladin."

"Danse." Her smile made him dizzy. It also made him steady. "It's good to see you."


	2. Wholes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The tradition (?) of second-chapter smut continues.

Danse released his grip reluctantly, but Cecily didn't go far. She leaned into him and wrapped her arms around his waist; he slid a hand around the back of her head—her bare head, he noted. She must have left her armor upstairs.

"Are you here on your own?" he asked warily.

"For now, but I was hoping you'd come with me when I go."

His heart jumped. Half excitement at the idea of being back out there, half excitement at being back with her. "Absolutely."

"You're not even going to ask what the mission is?" 

"I assume you'll brief me before we leave." If Danse hadn't been comfortable figuring things out in the field, he wouldn't have been assigned to long-range reconnaissance in the notoriously unpredictable Commonwealth. 

Cecily let out a short breath. "Yes. I don't know that you'll find it... satisfying, but I don't have a choice in this mission. It's the best way to prove myself to the Institute. And we should be able to put an end to a group of raiders that's been making trouble in the area."

"All right."

"You really trust me?"

"Yes. More than anyone." A hell of a lot more than he trusted himself these days.

She smiled, but it was a little bittersweet. "God, I missed you."

—

Her shirt and bra disappeared on the way to the back room, revealing soft flesh Danse was eager to touch. And his shirt was unaccounted for, too.

Cecily perched on the edge of the bed and kicked off her shoes. He knelt on the floor to help her tug off her ragged pants, then caught her by the hips. She rested her hands on his shoulders. The bed wasn't very far off the ground; their eyes were almost level.

"I worried about you," he said. 

"I know. I wish—" She let out a breath as he stroked his hands down her thighs. "It's so—ugh."

Danse paused, his heart in his throat. "Is something wrong?"

"No, no, it's not you. Sorry, sweetheart." Cecily brushed a hand over his hair, then waved dismissively at her near-naked body. "Stretch marks," she said as if that explained everything. "Could we turn off some of these lights? Makes me self-conscious when it’s so bright."

"Why?"

She glanced down at him and laughed a little. "Good question. Wow. Priorities, Williams."

"It bothers you that much what I think?"

"It's not," she said, and swallowed. "I mean... yes, of course I care what you think, but it's not really that. It's the reminder, you know?"

"You mean that you had a baby," he said.

She nodded and looked away, but he caught a glimpse of her face.

"I'm sorry." 

Cecily didn't answer and Danse had no idea what else to say. So he released her gently, rising to his feet and flicking off the overhead fluorescent before returning to kneel by the bed. The concrete floor felt harder than it had a moment before.

When he'd seen her at the elevator, he was flooded with relief: that she was here, that she still wanted him, that they were together. But it was selfish to be glad that fate had brought them to our another when that same fate had taken everyone she loved. It was even more selfish to be envious that she'd known that kind of life in the first place. He tried to put himself in her shoes, tried to imagine that kind of loss—and found he could imagine it a little too well. It was nauseating to think how he'd feel to lose _her._

"Thanks," she whispered finally. "But it's... I shouldn't talk about it now."

"You can always tell me anything."

"Anything?" Her eyes darted back to his face and her lips twitched.

Danse wasn't following. "I'm not sure what you're getting at."

"I could tell you all the filthy thoughts I've had about you in your jumpsuit."

"All the _what?"_ She was on the verge of laughing at him again. He could tell that much. "You haven't been in the Brotherhood long enough. Those jumpsuits are the farthest thing from sexy."

"No? What do you think is sexy?"

He narrowed his eyes at her. It was a fair question, all things considered, but it seemed entirely unfair that now he had to find the words to answer it. But at least she was smiling again. 

Cecily sighed and clacked her tongue. "It's the Power Armor, isn't it. I should have known."

"What—no!"

At his flustered response, she started laughing. As he'd expected.

He reached out and pulled her face down to his. Her lips were warm and giving; her giggles turned to wordless murmurs as she kissed him back eagerly.

"I do like watching you get into it," he admitted after a moment, a little breathless. "It's a good angle."

"For the love of God, Danse."

"I mean," he clarified, fighting back his own grin, "a flattering angle. For your... backside."

Cecily crowed.

"Not funny. It's a distraction in the field." He slipped his hand around her hip to squeeze the aforementioned backside. "Tactically disadvantageous."

She smirked down at him and he felt absurdly giddy.

"I told you," she said. "It's the damn jumpsuits."

Cecily leaned back on her elbows. Danse took advantage of the shift in position to bend his neck and press his lips to the soft skin of her thigh. When his kisses rose higher, she squirmed.

"That tickles—no, don't stop."

Her encouragement was one hell of a turn-on. He shifted, testing, trying to see what would make her respond.

He didn't need to try very hard.

Her legs fell open and nothing could have kept him from pressing his lips to the warm cotton. She let out a small sound of approval at the gesture and so he slid his hands higher up her hips, slipped a finger under the waistband to tug—

"Wait," she said, her hands coming to rest on his shoulders. "I'll do that."

She sat up and he watched, mouth going dry, as she rolled off the flimsy underpants. He reached for her but she moved, and he wasn't quite sure how it was that he found himself on _his_ back—and she was naked, kneeling across his lap, kissing him with firm intention on her lips and tongue.

The lingering disbelief that any of this was happening faded when she reached for the fly of his jeans. It was replaced by impulses that might have been synthetic but sure as hell felt real.

When her fingers curled around his cock, his concentration slipped. His interests narrowed to nothing other than just the yearning for more of... that. Or anything she wanted. They'd only spent one night together before she'd left for the Institute. He didn't exactly know what he was doing.

But it didn't seem to matter much.

"I think," she mused quietly in his ear, "I think you're going to fuck me soon. Am I right?"

He hardened in her palm. Of course she noticed.

"You like it, don't you," she whispered. "When I tell you what to do."

He couldn't seem to find any air to respond. Nerves mingled with excitement and he could only muster a short nod. Cecily released a low breath of laughter.

"I can do that. Would it make you happy?"

"Yes," he whispered back. He didn't know what it meant, whether gratitude should blur with desire like this, but God help him—in that moment, at least, there was nothing he wanted more. _"Please."_

The light touch of her fingertips was both too much and not enough. Her fingers danced up and down his shaft, cupped his balls, circled and pressed and teased. When she withdrew her hand, his wordless vocalization was embarrassingly close to a whimper.

She rocked onto his lap, pushed him back against the bare mattress and he didn't even have a chance to tug his pants all the way down before she was straddling him, rubbing hot and wet against his body. His hips jerked in a desperate search for contact and—when she took in the tip of his cock, all the air left his lungs all at once.

He grabbed her ass to steady her and he still didn't know what he was doing, not really, but she curved forward and pressed her lips to his throat even as she sank onto him. As he sank into her.

He sucked in a breath when she started to move.

Her breasts slid against his chest in time with the movement of her hips. His own hips jerked in response, trying to go faster, but she nuzzled his neck and said, "No. Stay put."

"No?"

"Trust me. I'll do the work."

She suited her actions to her words and lifted her body again, sliding down even more slowly than before, and he was harder than ever and it felt—damn good, actually.

He reached for her thighs, wanting to nudge her back and forth; the feeling he was after seemed just within reach. But she swatted his hands away and kept riding him at the same wonderfully, agonizingly slow pace.

When he tried again to move his arms she _tsk_ ed, pausing entirely while he ached with the desperate urge to move. But she'd told him not to. His body was operating purely on instinct at this point—whatever human instincts he'd been programmed with—but even instinct was less important than her instructions. He didn't have to think. Didn't have to worry. She'd tell him what she wanted.

"That's better," she murmured. "Now you've got it. Sweet, handsome boy... why don't you put up your arms? Over your head."

Obediently, he lifted his arms. His hands found the headboard and gripped tight; she straightened and braced her weight against his thighs while she rode him. It shifted the angle; it let her slide more slowly even though he wanted the opposite. A fresh jolt of pleasure had him panting with desperation for the next, but he didn't move.

"Yes, that's it. Stay right where you are." His body tensed further in response to the throaty murmurs. "Good. You're being so good." 

Danse whimpered. There was absolutely no other word for it. He'd lost all sense of time, all sense of when and where they were. He could lose himself in this—in her—he forced his eyes open to see her face was flushed and her lips parted. She leaned forward again and gripped his arms for balance. His hands tightened on the bed, muscles straining with the impossibility of remaining still when his body ached to move.

But Cecily was enjoying herself and, honestly, he had no complaints. He realized belatedly that he could lift and turn his head—his open mouth found one of her breasts and yes, she liked that too, but he couldn't focus on anything other than the way she was clenching around him. Her fingers curled on his arms, nails digging sharply into his skin. She was trembling, her eyes shut and her movements jerky; when she took him all the way in, settled onto his lap and stayed there, he was briefly convinced he was going to die. She shuddered, and then again... and then her body relaxed.

"Please," he begged.

And finally she nodded. And finally, finally let him move freely. Let him wrap his arms around her back and pull her down against his chest, let him hold her close and dive frantically into the heat and friction he craved.

She murmured low in her throat, tightened her legs around him, and he was too far gone. There was nothing to do but hold on—no, to let go. Someone groaned as he thrust upward. His world narrowed to that feeling and his body took over as he came, and then he was spilling inside her.

Well then.

Danse wasn't entirely sure what the protocol was in these situations, but Cecily seemed remarkably pleased with herself.

"Mm," she said dreamily, arching her back and stretching. "Nice."

"Exhilarating," was all he could find to say in response.

She smirked and wriggled her hips, and then—to his faint disappointment—slipped off his lap and stood up. She returned a moment later with a towel, wiping herself off and then offering him the same. He should really... he ought to sit up, but his head was still fuzzy.

So he let her tend to him. Let her caress him without any thought of embarrassment. Let his heart rate return to normal and let his mind try to remember which way was up.

—

It took a while, but Danse's mind did eventually catch up to the rest of him.

By then it was nighttime. It didn't really make a difference below ground, especially when neither of them were sleeping, but Cecily had shut off the rest of the fluorescents in an attempt to acknowledge the passage of time. It was even quieter without the hum of the ballasts. The soft glow from the oil lantern flickered across the floor as they lay naked in his bed, and Danse had never been so happy in his life.

He wanted to reach for a blanket to cover them, but he also didn't want to let go of her. Her face was turned up to him dreamily and her breath was warm on his cheek.

Her eyes looked dark in the dim light. They were an interesting color, he thought. Closer to grey than blue. Not that he went around staring into most people's eyes. Only hers. The long scars that streaked her face had missed them: he was glad of that.

But the thought brought some of his worries back.

He'd never been so close to anyone. Now that he was... it felt like he'd been wandering the wasteland without water his whole life. Now that he had it, he didn't think he could live without it. And he was afraid—he was so afraid it wasn't real, that he'd take a wrong step and find there was no way forward.

But there was no way back, either. He dropped his head and tightened his arms around her.

"What's on your mind?" she asked softly, lip quirking.

"I was wondering..." Danse cleared his throat. He had no trouble being straightforward in any other area of his life. Why was it so hard to say the things that actually mattered?

Haylen had expressed some concerns the last time they spoke. She hadn't known how his relationship with Williams had evolved, but she'd said _I know it's all or nothing with you, Danse. I just wanted to make sure you're not… transferring your loyalty, you know?_

But he wasn't. Haylen meant well, but his loyalty hadn't shifted from the Brotherhood. Regardless, her words had added to the other fear that was slowly growing. That this was all a mistake—that he didn't deserve to feel this way. 

"Wondering?" nudged Cecily.

Her gently teasing tone made it even harder to think clearly. He found himself avoiding her gaze and staring at the smooth skin of her neck, watching the tiny twitch that marked her pulse.

"Wondering if it's all... too fast."

Her eyes widened and her smile faded. "Are—do _you_ think—" She pulled away from him and sat up hastily. "Danse, my God, if you're not comfortable—"

He already regretted opening his mouth. "I didn't mean that."

Cecily stared at him. The silence between them stretched on uncomfortably before she finally asked, "What did you mean, then?"

"I just wanted to make sure you didn't feel... obligated."

"I don't understand."

He flopped helplessly onto his back and addressed the dark ceiling instead. "You don't have to do this." It sounded insulting to both of them when he said it out loud, but he couldn't think of a better way to phrase it. "I'll always value your friendship. If you decide you don't want this sort of relationship... I'd rather know. You never have to worry about me."

Cecily leaned over and looked down at him. It was too dark to make out her expression, but her body was tense. Still, she deserved to hear this. He had to make sure she had the opportunity to change her mind.

When a hand reached out, cool fingertips curling over his arm, he shuddered.

"No," she said. "I know that. Don't worry. But you—do you feel obligated to _me_? Danse, I can't think of anything I'd hate more."

"I owe you my life," he said, momentarily at a loss. "And my dignity. Everything I have. I'll always be grateful for that."

And she pulled her hand away. He'd said the wrong thing.

Impulsively, he rolled over and wrapped his arms around her waist, pressing his face against her skin. "Don't think—"

"I don't know what to think when you're saying these things to me," she said a little desperately. "I love you so much. Is that wrong? Did I—did I pressure you into being with me?"

"God, no." He lifted his head. If she really thought that, he hadn't made his point at all. "Cecily, I'm really not very good at this."

"You are," she scolded him gently. And then she smiled. "Well. You're learning. And so am I, darling."

Danse let out a slow breath. Awareness of their surroundings was coming back in force. "When was the last time you ate?" He should probably have asked that earlier, but he'd been distracted in the rush to feel her against him again.

Cecily shook her head. "Doesn't matter."

He raised himself onto his elbows and frowned at her. "Yes, it does."

"I don't think I could eat right now anyway. It's a lost cause." Her hand rose to trail over his face. "All I want to do is look at you."

He swallowed. "Your hair is a mess."

"Tactful." She snorted but reached up and started pulling out pins, untwisting her hair and combing it through with her fingers. "Yours isn't much better, you know."

Danse watched curiously.

"Why do you style your hair at all?" It looked nice enough—and more importantly, fit under a helmet—but seemed to require a disproportionate amount of grooming time.

"Habit, I suppose. I've done it like this for years."

It made sense that she'd want to cling to some echo of normalcy. It made sense on a level he wouldn't have understood a few weeks earlier.

"I like hearing you talk about the time before the bombs," he said. "You don't often."

"Don't I? I thought I'd told you a lot.”

“A little. Not about your life."

"Hmm." Cecily exhaled and lay back on the pillow. "I’ll work on it. Why don't you tell me about _your_ life?"

"It wasn't real."

“I want to hear it anyway. It's real to you, isn't it?”

“I’ll... work on it,” he echoed. “You're right, it’s not easy to talk about the past. Especially now. I’ve been trying to figure out when exactly...”

“You’ve been wondering when you left the Institute?"

Danse shrugged and shifted his weight back on the mattress to make more room for her. "You know more about the Institute than I do at this point. You and your underground friends." He paused, struck by the thought. "Do _they_ have any records on me?"

"Ha. I asked Deacon. He was full of shit, as usual. But if you came through the Railroad, you probably needed…” Cecily hesitated, too. She was choosing her words carefully. “You probably asked for their help. And it must have been a while ago. Quite a while."

"How would I even have met them?"

"They send synths to the surface all the time. You could have been a scavenger, maybe even a courser. I don't know. All Quinlan saw on the holotape was your face and DNA profile. And the fact that you were listed as 'missing'."

Danse tried to keep bitterness from his tone. "Nobody would volunteer to have their mind erased if those memories were anything worth remembering."

"I don't know if that's true," she said pensively. "It's like dying, right? Almost."

"Maybe." He didn't know.

"There are things I'd give my life for." Her fingers brushed over his cheek. "You, for one."

Hearing that knocked the wind out of him.

There was a strange dichotomy of leadership. You had to be willing to die for the men and women under your command and, at the same time, you had to be willing to order them to die for you. There was no room for hesitation on the ground. And no matter how skilled or experienced you were, mistakes were inevitable. 

People said they'd give their lives for the Brotherhood all the time. He'd said it himself and he'd meant it. The first time he'd come to this listening post, once he'd had a chance to think, he'd been prepared to do the job himself if need be. On some level he'd expected to die for the Brotherhood sooner or later. And on some level he still did. Hearing someone express thoughts like that? No, it wasn't unusual.

But nobody had ever said it about _him_. Not personally.

He stared down at her body as it rested against his. She was so beautiful, human and alive, but Danse had seen too much in his life to appreciate it the way he should. He tried not to imagine the organs that lay beneath her skin or envision the ways a minor fluke in the field could turn into disaster. How an enemy combatant could exploit weaknesses. He hoped his attachment to her wouldn't become one of those weaknesses.

Or, apparently, hers to him. If she really felt that way.

"You know," he said, "There's a reason they discourage fraternization. Things might be... different out there now."

Cecily's hand fell away from his face. "I don't think so. Even before this—if I'd lost you, too? I don't want to think about it."

It was hopeless. Had been hopeless since she'd claimed his trust to a degree he only rarely let himself feel for another person.

It was one thing to believe wholeheartedly in a cause. The Brotherhood existed outside the life or death of any one human being. It was larger than any of them. It was safe for Danse to pour his whole heart into it.

But with Cecily...

There was never any guarantee. Either or both of them could be killed tomorrow—it might even be likely, depending on the destination she had in mind—but what was the alternative? Sit back and let the world go to hell when they could be helping? He couldn't live with that. Neither could she, and he loved her for it.

He sighed. "So we just take it day by day."

"Yeah." Cecily laughed a little. "That's what I told Piper."

"I don't know why you'd tell that irresponsible muckraker anything."

"She was going to write about me one way or another. At least I got some say in what she..." Cecily clicked her tongue. "Damn. I forgot, I still need to make a trip home."

"Is that a problem?"

"I don't want to bring you there. Some of the settlers are Institute informants."

He jerked back and stared at her. "Forget about me. You've got Institute informants living among your people and you're just… fine with that?"

"I'm not _fine_ with it. But I don't know who they are yet. I was hoping to find more on my last trip down there, but." She shrugged helplessly. "I'm already watched so closely. Oh, Piper was right about one thing. The mayor's a synth."

"Of course he is." At this point, Danse would have been more surprised to find out someone wasn't.

"It doesn't make a difference right now, anyway. The next place I'm going, I know there's… well. You’ll see." She didn’t finish the sentence, just trailed a finger over his forearm. Her brow was furrowed and he was struck by the impulse to reach up and smooth it.

So he did. And when her lashes fluttered under his hands, he released the breath he'd been holding.

"This is real?" he whispered.

"Real," she confirmed, eyes still shut.

He confessed, "I think I'm losing my mind in here."

"I would be, too." She drew in a long breath of her own and exhaled slowly. "We'll head out in the morning, okay?"

"All right."


	3. Boundaries

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Angst (and smut) by the sea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whether all this boundary talk is coherent, however, and whether it reflects the structure of the world or simply the organizing activity of our mind, are matters of deep philosophical controversy.   
>  _  
>  [(Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy)](https://plato.stanford.edu/entries/boundary/)   
>  _

Neither of them slept much. Cecily lay curled in Danse's arms, his heart beating steadily in her ear. But he was awake: his arm tightened around her back and she drew in a deep breath.

She knew he rarely slept through the night. She'd half-expected him to rise and start tinkering with something at the workbench. But for once, Danse seemed content to stay where he was.

Cecily stroked her nails lightly down his side, feeling his body shudder and tense. It was delightful how readily he responded to her touch: delightful and a little bit heartbreaking. She was in no position to judge. It felt like it had been so long since she'd touched anyone herself—which it had, on the whole.

She’d been gratified, if not exactly surprised, to find that Danse approached their relationship with the same methodical seriousness he did everything else. What still took her aback was how completely and unreservedly he trusted her. Cecily wasn't sure she deserved that kind of loyalty.

But that was Danse. He didn't do anything by halves.

Cecily lifted her head to examine his face. His eyes were closed, his breathing a little rapid but controlled. She raised a hand, smoothing his eyebrows with her thumb, and his lids slitted open.

They watched one another in silence. Danse's eyes looked fiery in the dim light, flicking back and forth between her own. But his expression was placid and content—even soft, the way he studied her. And then he bent his neck forward and pressed his mouth to hers. His lips were warm, a little hesitant, and Cecily fell into the moment completely.

Maybe it was the lack of sleep making her fanciful, but she felt as if she were drifting downstream. Not the middle of the night in the bunker of her nightmares but outdoors on a sunny lazy afternoon before the world had ended, and the unhurried pace carried her along as gently as the current. Long, slow, open-mouthed kisses made her body tingle; Danse sucked in his breath as she twined her legs with his and she realized he was carried along, too. He ran a hand over the curve of her hip and she broke away to trail her lips along his throat until he trembled.

He had more scars than the ones on his face, she'd discovered. Some at what she recognized as the weak points in Power Armor, like the joints at elbow and knee. Others whose origin she didn’t know and hadn’t asked. When he dropped his head forward onto her shoulder, she paused.

"Are you okay?"

Danse gave a minute nod. "I don't… know what to say," he murmured apologetically. "I'm not very good at expressing myself in words. You of all people should know that."

Cecily curled a finger behind his ear, coaxing the ruffled hair back into place. "You're better at it than you think, darling."

Danse didn't answer, but his low exhale of breath raised goosebumps on her skin.

She thought she was right, though. It wasn't the words themselves that held him back. It was his caution: he was always so deliberate, so determined to say just the right thing. When he set aside the desire for control, the stumbling blocks disappeared and he spoke freely and earnestly. But he retreated behind those barriers so easily. A lifetime of practice, she supposed. However you'd calculate that in his case.

It wasn't just Danse. All the Brotherhood soldiers she knew kept people at a distance. Rhys hardly did anything else, but even Haylen could turn cold and sharp if pressed. It wasn't the sort of organization that prioritized personal relationships. And to Cecily, that made its claims of succession to the U.S. Army more compelling than any amount of Power Armor.

Nate hadn't been that way, not at first. He'd been a joker, her Nate, open and funny and warm; if not the life of the party, then not far off. But then he'd been deployed. He'd made it home, but things had been... different. Distant, even after Shaun was born. Nate would smile, he would laugh, but sometimes it felt like someone else hiding behind his eyes. Someone playing a role. Cecily had hoped they might work through it in time. But they hadn't had time.

Two hundred years and still not enough time. She sighed through her nose. Danse stirred and lifted his head from her shoulder.

"Shh,” she whispered lamely, stroking his flank. "You should get some sleep."

"What's wrong, Williams?"

"Nothing." She breathed in and out, twice, before admitting, "I was thinking about Nate, actually."

Danse's body tensed slightly against hers. "Oh?"

"Well, not Nate exactly. The military. Just thinking about what it does to this sort of relationship."

"Hmm." She felt the vibration of his voice more than she heard it, and she might not have heard it at all if not for the near-complete silence around them. The only other noises were a faint drip of water from somewhere back in the natural cave system, the soft clicking of the fusion generator, a low buzz from the terminal. "I wouldn't know."

"You were never with anyone before?"

There was a pause and then an infinitesimal shrug that sent ripples over his shoulders. "I could have been. That is, there were opportunities for relationships of a... purely physical nature." Despite the careful way he chose his words, he was relaxing again; his back rose and fell slowly under her hands. "To be honest with you, I did consider it. Like I said, there were opportunities—among the men and women I trained with, for example. But then I was promoted, and I was in the field with my squad, and I just..." There was a pause. "I got used to being alone."

Cecily slid a hand behind his head to run her fingers through his hair. "I understand."

"You don't mind?"

"There's nothing to mind, sweetheart."

"I don't know. I wish I knew all the right things to do with you. All the right things to tell you. I can't tell you how much..." Danse shook his head and his voice dropped low. "Being with you has shown me that I never want to be alone again."

She struggled to speak lightly over the tightness in her chest. If she had any say in it, he wouldn't be. But there were no guarantees in life. And there were so many things they didn't know about—about everything.

Aiming for levity, she asked, "If you have nobody to compare me to, how do you know I won't be a horrible partner?"

He snorted faintly and she breathed in the sweaty tang of his skin. "I'm not so inept that I can't tell the difference, Paladin."

She flinched. "Don't." So much for levity.

"What?"

"Don't call me that."

He looked up again, hooded eyes sharp, but there was only mild consternation behind them. "It's your title."

"No, it's _your_ title."

"You're getting upset," he said, brows lowering. "Why?"

"Why? Danse—" She _was_ upset, she realized dimly. Her hands were trembling and her eyes were blurring. They were in the same damn room where he'd gone to his knees, expecting—

She wanted to vomit. None of it was right.

"They wanted me to kill you," she whispered. "And you—you thought I would."

And then she'd had to go back up there, look Maxson and the rest in the eye, accept their congratulations, and get new orders from Kells that she still hadn't let herself think about. 

None of it was getting any easier to live with.

When she'd woken to this new Commonwealth, she'd assumed the synths were something like Codsworth. Or less human than that, even, like the mindless robots she'd fought with Danse at ArcJet. Even after hearing the Institute could create convincing human replicas, she'd envisioned... she wasn't sure. Something like that, something mechanical in a false human skin.

Yes, she'd met Nick Valentine. But he was something different. Experimental. Not representative of the army of infiltrators the Brotherhood claimed and the Institute itself boasted of, not loyal to the shadowy forces that had taken her family.

Danse's sincerity about the dangers to the Commonwealth hadn't helped. She'd trusted him instinctively and been damn relieved to do so. She'd overlooked the evidence of her own eyes. And... when it came down to it, she'd been so consumed with the desire for revenge that she'd been willing to believe anything that got her closer to that goal.

It wasn't about her at all, but damn if it didn't feel like God or the universe or whatever vindictive puppeteer ran the show had chosen to teach her a lesson. She'd taken the careless ease of her old life for granted. And only now, to her shame, was it clear that her own blinkered selfishness hadn't stayed behind in the Vault.

Despite her own rising regret, Danse's breathing was steady. He was relaxing—setting aside the nonstop vigilance that marked his days—he trusted her enough to fall asleep in her arms, God damn it, and she didn't deserve any of this.

The promotion to Paladin hadn't lessened her guilt. That, too, felt more like a reprimand than a reward: Maxson's tangible demonstration of how the Brotherhood rewarded _loyalty_. A reminder... and a threat. But they still weren't ready to assault the Institute. There was still more work for Cecily and her increasingly divided loyalties even as Liberty Prime loomed over the airport in anticipation of his moment.

"His." The pronoun made her want to bite something. They all called that monstrosity "he" with shit-eating grins on their faces. But Danse—living, breathing, beautiful Danse was an "it." All the things they claimed to value, his bravery and loyalty and honesty, meant nothing to Quinlan and the rest. They insisted on their version of reality to the point of denying the obvious.

Even Maxson had slipped. He'd looked directly at Danse and spoken to him like a man. A despised man, a traitor, but a man nonetheless.

Because even Maxson knew, deep down, that was what he was.

It was over. It was over but she could hardly think about it without shaking. He was safe, but she wanted to cry, to scream, to fight the whole damn world if it would try to keep him from her. She'd lost everyone else. She couldn't lose Danse. 

There was a hand on her face. His hand, lifting her chin to kiss her again. This time there was no hesitation in the gesture. Only the warmth and reassurance of his mouth on hers.

"I'm sorry I put you through that," he said gravely when their lips parted.

She shook her head in wordless denial. It was cool down here underground, but that wasn't what made her shiver.

Danse wrapped his arms around her back and pulled her tight against his body. She shut her eyes, breathing in the smell of sweat and metal and Wasteland dirt. He rested his cheek on her forehead and let out a long sigh.

It was a long time before either of them moved.

—

But she did drift off, after that, and by the time she woke she was shivering again. Danse had risen early after all. Cecily missed his body heat. But he'd found a ragged blanket somewhere and pulled it over her; looking around, she discovered her clothes folded neatly on the chair.

It was still dark. She only bothered to tug on the loose tee she’d worn the day before. Pants be damned. She’d want her jumpsuit today, anyway.

Danse had set up all the necessities in the back cavern: a tiny bathroom, a dresser, a Power Armor stand. Where had he even found that? Cecily shook her head and splashed some water over herself in an attempt to feel vaguely human.

When she made her way into the control room, Danse wasn't tinkering at the weapons bench but standing over the cooking station. He was already dressed in his old Brotherhood jumpsuit.

“Good morning,” Cecily mumbled. “What time is it?”

“Zero five hundred. I didn’t wake you clattering around, did I?”

“No.” She leaned against him briefly before going in search of a bowl. “Did you get any sleep?”

“Enough,” he said, rubbing his eyes with one hand.

Cecily was skeptical, but she was only a little better off. Danse shot a glance at her as she ladled out a helping of... razorgrain porridge, it looked like. A familiar sight by now. It was a bland and tasteless mess, but more benign than some of the things she’d learned to eat over the last year.

They settled in to eat their breakfast, sitting side by side on an ancient equipment rack.

“Ready to face the day?” asked her partner.

“More or less." She yawned. "I saw you found a stand for your new armor. How's it coming along?”

"Rather well, actually. I was able to scavenge some X-01 pieces near the bunker. Spent the last few days tuning them up."

"Is that as good as what you had?"

"Better." He hummed in satisfaction. "Don't tell Ingram."

"I wasn't planning on it," she muttered. 

Cecily reached the bottom of her bowl and rose to her feet to rinse it. When she turned back, Danse was still stealing glimpses at her around his mug. She gave it two more before calling him to account.

"What is it?"

His face flushed, wonderfully.

"I—nothing. Sorry."

She stepped closer to him and he set down the mug, freeing his hands to take her by the hips. "I like seeing you like this." 

She smirked down at his tousled head. "Seeing me like what, Danse?"

"Sleepy. Half naked." He slid his hands around the back of her thighs, tugging her gently forward. "Hot," he murmured. 

How was she supposed to concentrate when he spoke to her like that, touched her this way? Maybe he'd had a point about fraternization. As his hands moved higher up her legs, Cecily dimly recalled once being the sort of person who might have cared.

But they wanted to get to the coast before noon. And that meant…

"We should get going," she told him, not without regret.

Danse dropped his hands with a sigh. But to Cecily’s astonishment, there was a faint smirk on his own lips.

Well, she'd be damned.

—

It was midmorning by the time they reached the coast. They were taking an indirect route to their destination, picking their way carefully through dry woods and skirting the main roads.

There was a place on the cliffs that they’d visited once before. The crumbled shell of a pre-war beach house. Unfortified, but it offered an excellent vantage point—or what Cecily would once have called a nice view. They’d cleaned out the resident raiders weeks ago and she’d marked the site on her map as a potential settlement for the Minutemen, but so far the place remained abandoned to the wind and sand.

It was something approximating summer in the Commonwealth, but you’d never have known it from how little plant life there was. This world was still so sick. More than two hundred years and plants hardly grew. Rain hardly fell. When it did, it was the kind that stung her skin and irritated her eyes. The air that filled her lungs was stale and foreign and half-dead.

From some angles, it looked like little more than a Massachusetts winter had passed. Just enough to rust some cars, erode the shoulder of a road, but that was all. In other places, it could have been a thousand years or more. Dunes of indistinguishable refuse, broken down by sea and sand and wind, almost lulled her into forgetting: and then she'd notice a jawbone hanging open or a scrap of fabric in a too-familiar pattern.

It all made the moments when she caught a glimpse of beauty that much more striking and unexpected. And—in spite of everything—those moments seemed to strike more often of late.

The cache of supplies she'd left was untouched. An encouraging sign. Danse paced off to check the perimeter, just in case, while Cecily went to the water pump and tested the water. Irradiated, of course, but fresh.

Funny to think this was the sort of place Cecily had spent weekends with her friends in college. She'd had a boyfriend before Nate whose parents had a place near here. _Imagine what they'd think of it now._

Her thoughts were interrupted by a familiar shout and the unmistakable sound of laser fire. She dropped the pump handle and moved into position, but by the time she peered around the corner, Danse had already dispatched the squatter: a single soft-shelled mirelurk. The things could catch you by surprise, but once you were looking for them, they were hard to miss.

Danse trotted up the hill with his helmet dangling from one hand, not even breathing hard, and Cecily stared. He really was appallingly attractive.

"Just the one. And no signs of anything or anyone else. Those turrets we set up did the job," he said cheerfully. "I think we're clear.”

Cecily broke her gaze reluctantly and turned into the small garage, stepping out of her armor in the cramped space near the dry frame of an ancient rowboat. Danse followed suit a moment later and stepped down from his own armor frame, loosening the collar of his jumpsuit.

"We've got a few hours to rest,” she said. “I know you didn't sleep much last night."

"That's true," Danse said judiciously. "But I'm not quite tired enough for a midday nap."

He was standing very, very close. Cecily found her breathing slightly constricted when his gaze flicked to her mouth. The breeze off the sea floated through the open door, her heart beat in time with the distant but comforting clicking of the turrets outside, and her vision narrowed to the sunbeams that drifted before the dusty glass, to the tension in Danse's neck.

She swallowed. “We could—”

Before she could even finish the sentence, his mouth was on hers.

Danse, it seemed, was becoming more confident.

The noise she made seemed to spur him on. The quiet mood of the early morning was a distant memory: gentleness gave way to sheer enthusiasm as he hauled her up on the edge of the old workbench. His stubble scratched her face, then her neck, as he stepped between her legs and ground against her. She tried to brace her arms, fingers fumbling to find a grip on the edge of the bench, until she gave up and coiled her arms around him instead.

One of his hands palmed her breasts and then dropped lower, moving roughly between her legs. Cecily flinched involuntarily.

"Danse..."

"Sorry," he mumbled, hand darting away again. "This isn't the place for—"

"Don't be sorry," she panted. "Just—oh, God, please don't stop."

He paused, looking her in the eyes with a flicker of uncertainty, but his face relaxed at her nod.

She fumbled with the neck of her own jumpsuit until she found the zipper, sliding the whole thing down and over her hips. Danse's eyebrows shot up when she grabbed his hand and pushed it back between her legs. But he was just as eager—he worked her with his fingers, pushing the gusset of her panties aside, watching her face carefully all the while.

Cecily gripped the edge of the bench and let her head fall back. They could slow down, but her body was aching for the contact. When he slid a finger inside her, she moaned and rocked wantonly onto his hand. Why not? They were all alone. And every moment was precious. They should seize what opportunities they could.

Another finger joined the first and pumped rhythmically inside her, thrusting just a little harder and she loved it. His other hand curved around her back to support her, his thumb flicked over her clit and she was going to come around his hand if he kept this up. Which was fine with her, but—“Danse—”

His response was unintelligible and guttural. She was dimly aware that he was breathing as quickly as she was and forced her eyes open to see his flushed face, sliding her eyes down his rapidly rising and falling chest, lower to where his erection was obvious through the cloth of his jumpsuit. She shot him a questioning look before sliding her palm down the same path as her eyes to stroke him through the fabric. He drew in a sharp breath and his cock twitched under her fingers and damn it, her impatience would be the death of her.

Too bad. 

She laid her hands flat on his chest and pushed him back a step. His eyes widened as she found her footing, but she was busy kicking off her boots and struggling the rest of the way out of her jumpsuit until she stood naked before him.

"I want you," she told him breathlessly. “Inside me. Now.”

“Here?” His hands paused on the snaps of his own fly and he stared at her like he still, _still_ wasn't quite sure whether she was serious.

So she turned and leaned forward over the ancient workbench, propping her forearms on the dusty surface, and waited. If that didn't convince him she meant what she said—

It seemed to do the trick.

There was a faint rustle of clothing before he leapt into action—so good at taking direction—and he was behind her, his hands catching her hips. She gasped at the hot brush of his cock on her thigh and then he was inside her, filling her, pressing her down against the bench and driving the breath from her lungs. She splayed her fingers over the workbench as he drew back; she'd probably get splinters but she didn't care.

"Keep going," she instructed, or tried to; it came out as more of a plea. But Danse seemed to understand what she wanted just fine. He hoisted her legs up and she braced one trembling knee on the wood. She grabbed the vise for balance and turned her head to the side, arching her back as he thrust forward again with a low groan that made her tremble.

"All right?" he asked breathlessly.

She answered with an affirmative moan. She couldn't move much, but it didn't matter; he held her in place and she gasped in time with his rhythm. The weight of his body pushed her breasts against the cold metal of the bench. Each deep thrust took her closer; when he sped up, she panted encouragements and clenched around him. The noise of flesh slapping on flesh was obscene in the best way—he gasped her name and she was so close, she was on the verge of—

But then his movements slowed.

"Is everything okay?"

His breath was hot on the back of her neck as he said, "Yes. Hell yes. But... can we..."

She twisted to the side, trying to look back at him, and his words trailed off while he studied her with heavy-lidded eyes. Then he pulled out and flipped her over, so effortlessly she almost didn't realize his intentions until he was back inside her.

"I like to see your face," he mumbled.

She couldn't find the words to respond. So she only curved her arms around his back and smiled at him.

He moved with renewed enthusiasm and Cecily found a giggle rising in her throat. "I should have known you'd want to do this on the–"

_“Shh.”_

His mouth covered hers as his hands found a new grip on her ass. She clung to him, letting him set the pace. She was close, and so was he—his mouth fell open, his eyes slitted shut, and then he rocked forward and came inside her, pushing her forward against the metal, sighing raggedly in her ear while her legs shook and he came to a slow halt.

But she hadn’t—she twisted her hips frantically. The metal was slippery under her thighs, sex and sweat mingling with the gritty dust of decades.

"Finish what you started," she demanded. Despite the dazed look on his face, he responded. There was a rush of cool air as he dropped to his knees, and then the warm breath between her straining legs as he spread his fingers over her thighs and put his mouth on her.

"Like this?" he murmured, pulling back.

"Yes, don't stop—" Her hips bucked of their own accord and he hooked her leg over his shoulder, slipped his fingers back between her legs even as his tongue moved above. "Danse, please—"

In the end, she came around his hand after all.

—

"That was not how I expected to spend the afternoon," Danse remarked some time later, wiping his face with the washcloth before tossing it over the porch rail. His face was still a little flushed, she noticed, and his hair a little rumpled with sweat. It was delightful.

"The mirelurks or the—"

"The mirelurks I expected."

Cecily snatched at the discarded washcloth and applied it to her hands. "'Mirelurk' is such a dramatic name for the things." She hadn’t climbed into her own armor yet, but Danse had. His suit glinted in the afternoon sunlight as he turned to look down at her.

"What would you expect them to be called?"

"Crabs, darling. Hideous, horrible, overgrown"—she kicked at the fresh corpse that still lay in the doorway, her boot thudding dully on the carapace—"crabs." 

"I'd call them easy dinner."

"You're showing off."

"A little," he admitted, his voice amused. Cocky. He was in fine spirits, she realized; he was loving every minute of this, mirelurks and all. The breeze that blew in from the sea was almost fresh, the upside-down cries of the mutant seabirds were almost soothing, and for a moment Cecily was caught up in his exuberant mood all over again.

Until she remembered where they were going.

"Keep your helmet on," she told him bluntly. "I don't want to take unnecessary chances."

"Smart thinking." 

—

In retrospect, it was a good thing they'd had one blissful afternoon to themselves, because Libertalia was even worse than Cecily imagined.

They approached Nahant at dusk. They'd hardly crossed the causeway before they stumbled over the smoking wreckage of a vertibird. The severed upper body of a Brotherhood lancer lay sprawled on the ground before the cockpit door. Cecily could all but feel the tension emanating from Danse's rigid form as she bent to quietly collect the man's holotags.

As they passed through the town, they discovered the crumpled body of a dead Knight. And then another. The burns of lasers marked their armor and the smell of seared flesh filled Cecily’s nostrils as she rounded the final corner to the rendezvous point. And found a laser rifle aimed unswervingly at her face.

She swallowed and held up her hands.

"Designation X6-88?"

"Correct," the man said in that flat voice all the coursers used. Cecily still wasn't sure whether it was affectation or programming. He wore dark sunglasses despite the setting sun, but they didn't seem to hamper his vision: he spared only a disinterested glance for her companion and examined Cecily closely before moving his rifle into a neutral position. "Yes, I see the resemblance. At your service, ma'am. I've already neutralized the perimeter guard along with a patrol of Brotherhood scum. We can move on the flotilla at your convenience."

_Christ._

"I'm not sure how I'll explain a downed patrol to the Elder," she said.

"Don't tell him," said X6-88 simply.

Danse had been uncharacteristically silent throughout the exchange. But at the last remark, he shifted and his armor made a muffled clank. X6's obscured gaze fell on him again.

"Your friend is coming with us?"

"Us?" Cecily's response was sharper than she intended. "I can handle a few Raiders on my—with my friend."

"I have no reason to doubt that, ma'am, but I have my orders." X6-88 adjusted his grip on the laser rifle. "I'll be accompanying you the whole way."

 _Shit._ Cecily had hoped... well. _Shit._

She looked at Danse, but behind his helmet there were no clues as to his thoughts. Maybe she could ask him to stay here and watch their backs. An Institute Courser should be adequate support to take on a handful of raiders. But if the Brotherhood came in search of that downed vertibird, Danse was the last person she wanted them to find.

And maybe... maybe the real reason she'd brought him was that she didn't want to face this alone.

"Watch your step," said the courser as they turned to face the flotilla. "Unless that armor is more buoyant than it looks."

"It isn't," Danse said curtly.

The courser's mouth curved up in a smile that was as unexpected as it was disconcerting.

Despite the tone, Cecily was relieved to hear Danse's voice. It was the first thing he'd said since they passed the downed Brotherhood soldiers—and it proved to be the last for several minutes.

From a distance, the flotilla was an oddly festive-looking thing. It was a mess of connected rafts and ramps and boats in various states of disarray, lit with strings of light and the occasional spotlight. The raiders had the advantages of advance warning and knowledge of the terrain; Cecily's party had the technological upper hand even after she weighed the risk of falling into the water and exchanged her Power Armor for a set of raider gear, pocketing the fusion core to keep anyone from making off with it. Danse, of course, kept his suit. The courser looked on with an air of mild impatience.

And then they made their way out onto the rickety flotilla and into a flurry of gunfire.

They didn't bother to move quietly. This wasn't that kind of mission.

The three of them made up an odd team, but it was undeniably a deadly one. Cecily’s heart pounded in her ears as they made their way forward. Fighting human beings didn't feel so different from fending off wildlife these days and she should probably be disturbed by the implications of that, but—she was angry, too.

“Look at this,” she spat at Danse as they cautiously crossed another bit of debris. The headless corpse of a settler dangled above like a sick sort of decoration. “I hate these places. I hate these people.”

“Abominations, all of them,” he agreed grimly, but set his feet on the path ahead. “Keep moving, soldier.”

There was a powered lift to the old tanker that formed the center of the stronghold. Cecily eyed the lift for a longing moment but both of her companions shook their heads. _Too risky._

They were right, of course. And if they were going to clear this place out, they might as well clear it out properly. Resigned, she turned the other way and they made their way across one floating mound of debris after another. The festive look of the place faded and it began to remind Cecily of an overgrown, waterlogged spiderweb. X6 darted in and out of existence, clearing one sniper after another as they advanced.

Damn, having a courser on their side really was an asset.

The moon had risen by the time they finally reached the upturned tanker that formed the center of the stronghold and began working their way up the levels of ladders. Cecily was grazed by a sniper's bullet, but a retaliatory grenade solved that problem. And finally they all stood in the captain’s cabin. No one was there, but a sturdy metal hatch marked the only possible place Gabriel could be.

They took a moment to gather themselves before making a final assault. Cecily administered a stimpak to herself. X6 examined an abandoned shotgun on a side table while Danse checked the terminal on a desk littered with cigars and empty liquor bottles. After tapping at the keys for a moment, he let out a muffled snort.

"Your friend Garvey might be interested in these," he said in a low voice to Cecily.

The courser interjected before she could respond.

"This is not relevant to our mission," he said coolly. "I recommend we advance before our target decides to risk a swim."

"Agreed," Danse said grudgingly. "It'll keep."

"Your skill is impressive," X6-88 said to him as the three of them moved to the hatch. "And”—behind the dark lenses, he looked Danse up and down—"unanticipated. Are you Brotherhood of Steel?"

Danse was silent for a long moment. Cecily braced herself even as he said, "Former."

X6's lip twisted in faint disdain as he turned back to Cecily. But thankfully, the courser didn't seem interested in further questions.

“Ma'am, before we proceed, there's something important I need to tell you...”

As he explained his plan to use the escaped synth's recall code, Cecily's own mind went blank. 

"Danse," she whispered just before she followed X6 outside, one eye on the courser’s sleek leather-covered back.

"What's up?"

"Shoot the runaway if you have to. Don't let the Institute have this."

"No problem," he grunted through his respirator. "Goddamn scum."

In this they were more united than anything else: the Institute were predators, dangerous predators who needed to be stopped. And so were these raiders.

—

But when it came down to it, Cecily was the one who hesitated.

She shouldn't have. She had a clear shot and Danse didn't. The man was a raider, living off of innocent civilians. She'd killed so many like him already.

It shouldn’t have mattered. But it was obvious that he hadn't known who he was any more than Danse had. Gabriel's wide eyes caught the light as he looked up at her. He looked confused and frightened more than angry. And there was something about the steely blue-grey shade that had her—pause. Hesitate. For just a fraction of a second before—

The courser's cold words rang out across the deck. "B5-92, initialize factory reset. Authorization gamma-7-1-epsilon."

And it happened, just the way Cecily remembered it. The life emptied instantly from those blue-grey eyes and the synth's shoulders slumped slowly down, his head dropping into passivity.

Cecily's finger was still frozen on the trigger. It shouldn't have mattered, but it did.

The cries of the other raiders rang in her ears. They held something like genuine concern. “Boss? Boss, can you hear me?"

That concern didn't last long. Danse lunged from cover to blow the raiders away; the laser blasts were echoed by a quick burst of radio chatter. X6 grabbed the non-responsive synth by the collar and disappeared in a crack of light just as the last of the raiders disintegrated into ash.

"So much for Libertalia," muttered Danse.

And Cecily found she had no response.

—

It was well after midnight by the time the two of them were far enough from the flotilla that they felt safe to camp.

An abandoned metal shack, barely large enough for two sleeping bags, sat on a cliffside to the north. Shelter that would let them keep an eye on the surroundings: perfect. They'd found a trough full of rainwater and cleaned the blood and grime off their armor as best they could. Even irradiated water was better than salt water for that purpose. Now their two suits stood outside the shack like silent sentries while they sat on the steps and looked out over the water far below.

Danse let out a low hum of inquiry, breath stirring her hair, as she nestled closer against his side. "Williams?"

"Mm. Just thinking. Don't pay attention to me."

"I'm not certain I can comply with that request," he said, and there was a tiny hint of amusement in his voice that almost made her melt. He was doing better than she was, evidently. In spite of everything.

The moon was still up and silhouetted the Prydwen hovering far to the south. The ship was visible from most of Boston, night or day. Cecily turned away from the skyline and moved onto Danse's lap, burying her face in his shoulder while he ran soothing hands over her back.

"We've got a lot to work through, don't we?" he murmured wryly into her ear. "I did warn you you'll have to be patient with me."

"I'm starting to think it's the other way around," she said, frustrated. "I'm a goddamn mess, Danse. You think I've handled everything well? I haven't. I haven't handled it at all." She sat back. How was he the one relaxing while she fell to pieces? "To think I was worried _you'd_ have trouble shooting synths."

"Is that what happened back there? You choked?"

She nodded, feeling hot shame creep up her cheeks. She'd let him down.

But Danse only shook his head slowly. "I'm not sure I could have done it either," he said. "Not like that. Not in cold blood. It wouldn't have been honorable."

Cecily almost laughed at the absurdity. "Honor, huh?"

Danse let out a breath. "Don't get me wrong. The things I've done in the Brotherhood's name—I've fought as dirty as anyone else. There isn't always room for ideals on the battlefield. You know that."

"I do," she said. "But what happened tonight? God." Blowing the man's head off would have been kinder.

"It was... sobering," he admitted. "Especially in light of my true identity."

 _He's not a man, he's a synth._ The courser's too-familiar words still rung in her ears. 

Cecily grimaced. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have asked you to—"

He pressed a thumb to her lips. "Don’t. I meant it when I said I wanted to fight at your side whenever I can."

“At least the Institute will be happy... as if staying with the Brotherhood wasn't bad enough. I can't stand the way they talk about you. How am I any better? Any less of a hypocrite?” She couldn't stand it. “I know how much the Brotherhood means to you. And maybe it's not fair to say these things, not to you, but Danse—"

He'd turned his face away while she spoke. She was pushing him away already. He was going remote just like Nate had done—would she lose him, too? Damn it, damn it—

"No," Danse said calmly as he looked back to face her.

She’d been wrong: he wasn’t upset. Or if he was, it didn’t show.

"It’s what I was saying before. You don’t know half the things I've done in the Brotherhood's name. I was a soldier. I've made... difficult decisions. You think I haven’t struggled with that? Williams, if I'd known everything I do now, I might make different choices. But knowing what I did at the time? I'd make them all again. I can't believe it was all for nothing." He ran a hand wearily over his face. "At least not yet," he added in a low voice.

She really needed to tell him everything she'd seen in the Institute. But she couldn't find the words.

Maybe _she_ was becoming the distant one.

"Are you... happy, Danse?"

"Yes," he said immediately. "I've never been happier. Are”—his voice became more somber—“Are you?”

"Yeah." She leaned into him and rested her cheek on his shoulder. He brushed vaguely at her loose hair.

"Cecily..."

She smiled in spite of herself and leaned back to look at him. "You called me by my first name. Well done."

"I'm practicing," he muttered. "Cecily."

"Danse."

"I'm serious about making this relationship between us work, you know."

"I know." She reached up to smooth his hair, too. "Oh, I know."

"I'm glad you didn't shoot me."

"Lord. I'm not ready to laugh about that. Too soon." But her lips quivered. "I did shoot you once, remember? With a rocket."

"I was fine."

Cecily snorted. The bastard sounded _smug_. "You were not fine. You were showing off. Again."

"I admit to taking... incidental satisfaction in the opportunity to demonstrate the advantages of Power Armor to a potential recruit," he said thoughtfully.

"I love you.”

Danse looked at her in surprise. "I love you, too."

His arms were warm as they pulled her against his chest. The night was a hot one, but she welcomed the contact anyway.

“What else is bothering you?" he asked quietly. "Something you don't want me to know?"

She shook her head. "No. It's not that. It's not you. I'm just… I’m not sure how to say it."

Cecily rarely let herself dwell on things she couldn’t change. At least not by daylight. She'd had plenty of practice at shoving it all to the back of her mind in favor of more immediate concerns. But now…

Her family was gone. Nate's too. Her parents, her husband, her brother, and her friends; her cousins, her coworkers and acquaintances. Everyone she’d ever met was dead—or worse—and in the darkest hours, that was how she saw them in her mind. Twisted by radiation. Wandering mindlessly through the wasteland feeding on human flesh. Lurching out of the darkness. Maybe Danse had destroyed some of the people she'd loved. Maybe she'd done so herself. Would they want that? A final end to centuries of wasting and emptiness?

For all the Brotherhood’s flaws, she didn't want anything to do with the Institute. They toyed with the people of the Commonwealth and with their own. They’d murdered Nate. They'd taken Shaun and turned him into a monster. As if the lost years weren't enough. To see what he'd become without her there to take care of him…

She'd promised Nate to find their boy and bring him home.

But their boy was gone. Whoever that was down there in the Institute was... wrong. It was all wrong and Cecily was alone.

Danse lifted his hands to grip her by the arms. "You're not alone," he said. The echo of her thoughts was so uncanny she could only stare at him.

He didn't say anything else. She looked away from his eyes, so far from blue, and turned her gaze to the moonlit ground. Long sea grasses waved in a wind she couldn't feel.

"I'm not ready to talk about it," she said finally. Pathetically. "It doesn't affect the mission. It's something else. About what happened at the Institute."

"What happened?" Danse's arms slid back around her waist and gripped her tightly. "Did they hurt you?"

"No. Not—no."

His gaze was intent; his chest rose and fell too quickly. She could feel the tension in his body and knew her own mirrored it. But he didn't push for more—damn, stubborn man. He'd respect her wishes if it killed him. She had to tell him something, at least, or he'd fear even worse.

She cleared her throat. "I just saw some things that upset me. What happened today… made me think of it, is all."

Danse's arms around her were almost crushing.

"So you _would_ hold me if I needed it," she whispered.

His lips were warm against her skin. "Always."

"I'm not ready," she repeated helplessly. Not ready for any of it.

"When you are, I'm here for you."

**Author's Note:**

> Art for this fic:  
> 
> 
> Curious about how this series fits together? [Here's the timeline.](https://sites.google.com/view/tanaleth/home/fallout/)


End file.
